A Wounded Punjab Speaks: Self Audit of Legacy

Dr. Pushpinder Singh Gill

I, Punjab — who once fed a starving nation, who offered my sons to guard its borders, who turned barren plains into gold — stand today in anguish, questioning my own children and leaders. I was carved from sacrifice, watered by the blood of farmers and soldiers alike, and raised to be a land of courage and contentment. Yet I find myself shackled in debt, drained of water, divided in spirit, and wounded in dignity. How did those who inherited my strength allow me to come to this?

After Independence, I rose from the ashes of Partition. My fields turned green, my granaries overflowed, my rivers sang with gratitude. The Green Revolution began in my lap, feeding India when hunger threatened its honour. My soldiers stood as the nation’s shield, my diaspora carried my name with pride across oceans, and my poets and thinkers gave India its voice of conscience. But somewhere along the way, gratitude gave way to greed, and politics replaced purpose. Those entrusted with my destiny treated me as a prize to be exploited, not a trust to be guarded. Did those who built me with sweat and sacrifice ever imagine I would stand rich in buildings but poor in virtue?

Sometimes I recall Amrita Pritam’s haunting cry — “Ajjaakhan Waris Shah nu, kabrawichonbol.” She wrote of my daughters lost to Partition, of my soul bleeding in silence. Decades later, that lament still echoes across my fields and rivers — a reminder that my wounds were never healed, only renamed. Must I summon Waris Shah once more to write another page of sorrow?

Today I carry a debt of over ₹4 lakh crore — nearly twice my annual budget. Forty percent of my revenue goes merely to service loans. My farmers, who once fed the nation, now struggle to feed their own children. Every fifth household carries debt, and suicides continue to blot my conscience. I was built on thrift and hard work, yet my coffers bleed from reckless borrowing and populism. Instead of building industries, my leaders built empires. Instead of rewarding merit, they rewarded loyalty. How long can a mother survive when her veins are drained by her own children?

My politics, once respected for intellect and integrity, has turned into a theatre of convenience. Parties rise and fall not on vision but on vendetta. My sacred soil, once echoing with service and sacrifice, now hosts shouting matches and hollow promises. I watch as my young ones drift — some into addiction, others into anger. When did my sons, who once chanted “Raj Karega Khalsa” (the pure and just shall rule), lose faith in justice itself?

The floods of 2025 were not just a natural disaster; they were an audit of our governance. Over four lakh acres of farmland drowned, lives were lost, and villages swept away. My people waded through filthy water, waiting for relief that came too late. For decades, my drainage systems were ignored, my embankments encroached upon, and my flood plans buried in files. Even now, the blame game continues — Centre versus State, red tape versus reason. Is it too much to ask that drones, data, and predictive technology replace slogans and ceremonial visits?

Once my soil was the envy of the world; now it gasps for breath. Over 80% of my blocks are “over-exploited,” and my groundwater table sinks faster than anywhere in India. The average yearly rate of fall of groundwater levels works out to be approximately 0.49 meters/year. My rivers — Beas and Sutlej — carry industrial waste instead of life. The same hands that tilled me with devotion now pump out the last drops of my soul. Why have my planners ignored rainwater harvesting, canal restoration, and crop diversification when every alarm bell has long been ringing?

Agriculture, my backbone, now bends under the weight of neglect. Ninety percent of cultivation still depends on paddy and wheat — a cycle that drains water and yields little reward. The average farmer debt stands near ₹3 lakh, often repaid with a life. The children of those who once celebrated harvests now sell land to pay for visas. Precision irrigation, soil mapping, and AI-based forecasting could have transformed me, yet policy inertia remains my biggest drought. Can the land that led the Green Revolution not lead a second — one rooted in sustainability and dignity?

But my deepest wound lies in the fading light of my youth. Drugs creep through my veins like a slow poison. District after district fights addiction while jobs vanish. I was meant to be a land of enterprise and courage, yet my sons queue outside rehabilitation centres or embassies. Official figures speak of hundreds of drug deaths; whispers tell of thousands. Corruption in enforcement, porous borders, and political patronage keep the trade alive. Why does every government promise a crackdown but none uproots the rot that sustains it?

Corruption — the termite eating my foundation — has made honesty look foolish. Every licence, posting, and tender carries a price. Officials treat my treasury as inheritance, politicians flaunt ill-gotten wealth while preaching morality. Technology could have been my saviour — blockchain to track spending, AI to flag fraud, and public dashboards to account for every rupee — but truth is feared more than theft. Why are my leaders afraid of systems that cannot be bribed?

My governance limps on broken crutches. Bureaucrats serve masters, not citizens. Files move when palms are greased, not when duty calls. Salaries are delayed even as new welfare schemes flood the headlines. During the floods, ministers came for photographs, not for rebuilding. The spirit of seva that once defined me now survives in volunteers and NGOs, not institutions. Has governance become a theatre for optics instead of an instrument of service?

My social fabric too frays in silence. Conversions divide villages, caste dictates opportunity, and the idea of collective good weakens. Migration drains my lifeblood; my best minds leave. My artisans shut their looms, my teachers despair, my doctors depart. From Malwa to Majha, every corner whispers the same question — have my children lost faith that I can rise again?

And yet, even in despair, my pride refuses to die. I remember my soldiers who fought at Kargil, my daughters who excel in every field, my diaspora that sends help unasked, my farmers who innovate despite all odds. I remember those who serve in gurdwaras, feeding thousands every day without expecting praise. My resilience is no myth — it is my inheritance. Can this spirit not be rekindled in governance, in honesty, in daily action?

If my pain has a cure, it lies not in politics but in purpose. I need leadership unafraid of transparency, a bureaucracy that delivers without bribes, and citizens who reject shortcuts. I need every district connected through digital dashboards — every rupee traceable, every scheme verified in real time. I need my rivers cleaned by science, not sermons; my youth trained in green technologies; my agriculture diversified into high-value, water-wise crops. Can those who speak in my name rise above party colours to serve me with the devotion their ancestors once showed in creating me?

I am still that Punjab whose fields once glowed like gold and whose spirit never bent to tyranny. But I plead not for sympathy — I demand accountability. My audit is not a ledger of losses; it is a call to conscience. My people must choose between decay and renewal, between comfort and courage. I do not seek to shame, only to awaken. Will you, my children, still let me wither under your watch — or will you rise to make me whole again?

Or must I, once more, call upon Waris Shah to write another chapter of tears?